You’re a born worrier, my Nanny used to say. And I am, I still am. They come unbidden these fretful thoughts, coming on waking mostly. And then that is it, they have taken hold and my back and shoulders begin to tighten. What was it this morning? Well, it began last night. I couldn’t decide what work to focus on this morning. There is so much I want to do, to get started. You want to achieve more in one life than most people achieve in six, he said, his Siamese cat miaowing in the background. The question is, or at least was last night in bed, do I concentrate on one piece this morning or get several going? And does the latter option mean that I am somehow less focussed? A jack of all trades master of none? How that adage has haunted me. I have so many interests. I am magpie, a jackdaw, a collector, a stealer of shiny things. And I am so in a fog at the moment. There are lots of paths but which one to take? Take them all, he says. You’re experimenting. Stop fretting. When I said I had so many ideas and I don’t know which to pursue, he just said, that’s good, isn’t it? Yes. And the ideas, when they come, are lovely. I feel alive then. I’ve bought two books. Should I, shouldn’t I? I always try to get them second-hand. One about lines and the other about being a craftsman. I want to read about the process of making. Where it will lead, I don’t know.

So many uncertainties. Life is uncertain, to believe otherwise is foolish. We try to order it, to impose a regime on the chaos, merely a plaster, nothing can hold the mystery, form or control it. She hasn’t called. I didn’t expect her to. Not yet. It will happen, we are all willing it to be so. I will hold her, breathe her in. I think about ways of seeing her more often, and for a longer period, not this snatching of time. Can I let it go? Can I send out that wish?

Two lovers were embracing in the shadows as I walked from the Castle towards The Angel. I heard their murmurs, their bodies held close were reflected in the rain-soaked tarmac.

There was a moment of joy. The Waterboys came on  in my ipod singing A Man is in Love. Walking in the rain, around the curve of the Prom towards the harbour, I imagined myself dancing to  it, the jig, the diddly-i as Terry Wogan used to call it. I was being whirled round by him. We’d practiced and the dance was fantastic, fluid, hypnotic, glorious. I found myself smiling. I could see it all.

She is better, her voice was stronger, the fear had gone. She was just off for a walk with Bonnie, she told me. And I could hear her in the background, staccato barks, then keening. I’d better let you go then, I said. So glad you’re better. Thank you, she said.

I began looking at cross stitch clubs thinking there might be some contacts I could use. What a minefield. So many. There are Saturday afternoon clubs, Monday morning clubs. There are even holidays, weekends away at the Hilton sewing. Don’t forget your glasses, it says on the website. Should I go? What a mine of information that would prove. Do I want to dispel the myth I have in my head of the kind of woman who would go to such an event? Do I want safety here or challenge? Should I get in touch with the organisers? Who goes? And what do I want to data for? What am I trying to find?

The sound of the rain on my umbrella was nice this morning but the air was chill burning the tips of my fingers.

Let it be, today. Just let it be.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.